Kiss With A Fist
by madsthenerdygirl
Summary: Turns out it's a fine line between killing your ex and pounding them into the wall.


**Title: Kiss With A Fist**

**Rating: XXX (I don't know if that truly applies but I've always wanted to say that!)**

**Summary: Turns out it's a fine line between killing your ex and pounding them into the wall.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned the Winchesters… *slaps self* Stop it! Bad thoughts! Stop it!**

**Author's Note: The title comes from the Florence + the Machine song of the same name.**

She was going to smite him. She was going to _smite_ him! That upstart little wench! What did she think she was doing, assisting the Winchesters? She probably assumed that Castiel would return to see Dean, or that Dean would find Castiel, and wanted to be there when it happened.

Bitch.

"Crowley!"

It wasn't his proudest moment, resorting to summoning and using a trap to arrange a meeting with Naomi. He didn't trust her not to try and pull something on him.

Of course, finding herself bound to a specific spot on the floor and unable to use her angelic powers was not improving Naomi's mood.

"You undo this trap immediately!" She demanded. She looked ready to burst a vein in her vessel's neck.

"Sorry – no can do, love." He informed her with no lack of glee.

She glared at him.

"What do you want?"

"I want to know what game you're playing." Crowley explained. "Why stoop to working with the Winchesters?"

"As if you haven't done it." She was practically spitting. In all honesty, he would have been just as worked up if he'd been the type to let his anger show that way.

He stepped towards her, his shoes crunching in the thin layer of gravel coating the floor. He made a mental note to do this in a much nicer location next time.

"Look, sweetheart, I don't have a whole lot of time to be wasting on you." He sneered. "So let's get down to brass tacks, shall we? I don't much like you messing around with my favorite playthings."

"And you are interfering with my work. Again." Naomi pointed out. "You nearly got me demoted last time – if my superiors discover that I was even _talking_ to you…"

"Who are your superiors, exactly?" Crowley cut her off. "Chamuel? Is that prick running the show? Or perhaps Sandalphon?"

"It's none of your business." Naomi snapped. "Now release me or–"

"Or what?" He snarled, taking a step closer. "You're stuck here until I release you. Now tell me what your stake in all of this is."

"What's yours?" She fired back.

"I want the Winchesters stopped and the Gates of Hell left open." He smiled. "Rather obvious, isn't it?"

She gave him her iciest, bitchiest glare. Then her eyes widened and she sucked in a tiny breath, looking down at the ground. Crowley followed her line of sight and realized that in stepping closer, the toe of his shoe had scuffed up one of the lines of the angel trap.

They both moved at once, their hands coming up to grip at each other's throats in an almost synchronized movement. It was laughable, how they both made for the same hold, the same stance to fight and maim. Hate and resentment and anger, leftover from years ago, were all boiling to the surface again with a vengeance.

One or both of them moved, and suddenly they were battling it out, supernatural abilities set aside in favor of a grittier form of combat. For all of her starched suits Naomi was a capable fighter, and Crowley enjoyed a good brawl now and again, so they were evenly matched. Any one of their blows would have broken a mortal's bones and ruptured a few organs, but as it was they only became angrier without doing any real damage.

Eventually they ended up with Naomi backed towards the wall, Crowley advancing. She threw a punch and he grabbed her arm, spinning her around and pinning her arm behind her back, ramming her face-first against the wall. She spat out several insults in Enochian, her true voice leaking through her vessel's and making it sound as if two people were speaking at once.

He leaned forwards, his breath hot on her ear. "Give it up, _dear_." He said mockingly.

Naomi tried to twist out of his grip and failed, snarling at him in Enochian. He was pretty sure those words meant something along the lines of _fucking snot-nosed overblown bastard_.

Funny how she used the same words when she was in the throes of rage as well as love.

She twisted again as he loosened his hold and moved forwards to grab at her, and suddenly they were kissing, a forceful meeting of lips that was bruising, their mouths trying to crush each other. Teeth clacked almost painfully, their tongues battling as they twisted and thrust together. Their hips thrust and gyrated, pushing and shoving each other.

It wasn't gentle, it wasn't considerate, and it was far from loving. The hate could be felt in the air, seething just underneath their skin, broiling in their stomachs. There was a drive to hurt, to inflict pain, but for some reason that neither wanted to examine it was giving them this _want_, making them straddle the line between pain and pleasure, pushing the boundaries as far as they would go.

He pushed her farther up against the wall, pinning her until she couldn't breathe. Luckily she didn't have to. She was rutting against him, hips snapping violently, challengingly, as if to prove something to him. He'd missed this, the dirty little whore that lived inside her, and the fact that he missed it made him all the angrier. She seemed just as angry about it, her nails clawing at his scalp as she buried her fingers into his hair, and he could feel the thin trickle of blood they'd produced.

It felt like he was trying to ram her into the wall, through the wall, knock the entire fucking wall down. Maybe he was. The lines were all so blurred now. He couldn't entirely remember why he was gripping her shoulder and hip so hard that he could feel the bone crack, or why he entered her with such a hard thrust that made her scream. But then, she probably didn't remember why she was digging her heels viciously into the small of his back, or why she was biting – really biting – at his neck.

Maybe it didn't matter why.

It felt terribly wrong to be doing this, but that's what made it feel right. There's a point they were trying to make here, but it was lost in the anger they gave into, the rage they pinched and ground and bit into one another. He knew for a fact that her lips were bleeding, and his probably were too. There was a hickey on her neck the size of a small African country, and smaller dots from his fingers and mouth littered the rest of her. He both dreaded and anticipated what he'd see when he looked in a mirror.

Naomi opened her mouth to say something, possibly get the last word in, but something collapsed in her eyes and she simply leaned back against the wall, looking positively ravaged. He eyed her thighs, seeing the semen glistening as it leaked down the insides of her legs.

"This isn't over." He warned her.

She opened her eyes, looking a little surprised.

"Of course it isn't." She replied, her tone once again cool and contained. She straightened up, a shiver running through her as she used her Grace to clean herself up. He saw the bruises had all vanished, and he made to snarl. As if she wasn't annoying enough, now the bitch had to go and remove all evidence. Ashamed, are you darling?

She strode past him, her heels clicking oddly on the filthy floor, but he caught a glimpse of her left breast through her not completely buttoned blouse. One small bruise remained.

Oh, well then.

"Enjoy your power while you can." He remarked. "I doubt you'll have it for much longer once you fail."

She arched her eyebrows. "I cast you into Hell once." She noted. "I can do it again."

He sneered. "You'd miss me."

She said nothing, but her eyes flickered, like a candle before a breeze, and she vanished.

His anger had dissipated somewhat, watered down into a manageable state, but it still lingered in his veins. He smiled to himself, staring down at the angel trap on the floor. Taking her down a notch was going to be terribly amusing.

**I was done with this pairing. I was, I swear to God. But oh no, we had to have Taxi Driver, and Naomi calling Crowley "dear". Do you know who calls someone "dear"? Married couples. Yup. And they were just **_**so pissed**_** at each other…**

**Ahem. Anywho, I'd prefer a black '67 Chevy Impala but otherwise a review would be nice.**


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